


you committed, i'm your crime

by softEldritch (assbutts)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: (but lbr do i write anything but), Alfred is not a good man, Alpha America (Hetalia), Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Assassin!Alfred, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Dom/sub Undertones, Dubious Consent, Knotting, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Nurse!Arthur, Omega England (Hetalia), Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Threats of Violence, it's complicated - Freeform, neither is Arthur
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-02
Updated: 2018-05-02
Packaged: 2019-04-29 14:51:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14475057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/assbutts/pseuds/softEldritch
Summary: Arthur Kirkland is a nurse at Labyrinth Penitentiary, a place for dangerous criminals and metahuman superheroes to live out their sentences. It's a more dignified means of paying for his years of crime than rotting in a cell. Arthur despises it but it's a job like any other, a leash he's willing to deal with if it gives him his relative freedom.That is, until he meets Alfred F. Jones.





	you committed, i'm your crime

**Author's Note:**

> do people even still read hetalia fic?? anyway here's some (mostly unedited) garbage
> 
> (title from copycat by billie eilish)
> 
>  
> 
> _see notes at the end for dubcon warnings_

If there is one benefit to his government-mandated work with Labyrinth Penitentiary, Arthur muses as he’s being led down brightly-lit hallways of cement and metal, it’s that there truly is never a dull moment. Playing nursemaid to the various supervillains and dangerous metahumans that call Labyrinth home is not his chosen profession, but as glorified community service at least it’s always interesting. Certainly better than his short stint in one of Labyrinth’s very cells, before he pled coercion by his family and was elected for rehabilitation.There are benefits to being an omega. Government types are always so willing to believe manipulation and innocence. After all, what omega could ever willingly be part of a team of supervillains, leaving behind a trail of thefts and chaos?

The answer to that question is Arthur Kirkland. But none of his handlers need to know that. All they need to know is that he’s suppressing his psychic powers, and that his mother trained him in medicine before she was arrested. The rest is a secret Arthur will keep to his grave, or at least until they release him from service in twenty-some years.

Today is no different than any other. A new arrest has been made, a new patient brought into Labyrinth Penitentiary, a new body for Arthur to patch up. Metahumans tend to make a mess of the villains they arrest despite all claiming to be consummate heroes, and Arthur is the one who cleans up after them. Despite the drugs his telekinesis is excellent for fine details and delicate work, and he’s always been better with his hands than most.

“In here,” says the guard leading him. An alpha named Cole Shauser, who Arthur has never seen without a pair of mirrored sunglasses and an unlit cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. “Try not to take too long, Kirkland. Guy’s dangerous.”

Arthur nearly smiles. “Aren’t they all?” He slips through the door, ignoring the way Shauser blatantly stares at his ass, not even glancing at the man laid out on the table until the door slides shut with a hiss behind him.

 Then the scent overwhelms Arthur’s nose. Bright and violent, almost bitter, rich like dark chocolate and coffee and something heavy that presses down around Arthur’s shoulders.

When he finally looks at his patient, his heart nearly stutters to a stop.

They’ve never met, of course. Arthur and his family were in a very different business, and Arthur was the baby; always protected, always kept out of harm’s way as much as possible despite being the most powerful of them all. But he would recognize this man out of a million others, simply by virtue of his fame. Both the criminal and civilian worlds know of him, _fear_ him, and now that Arthur is alone in a room with him he can’t help the frisson of fear that shivers its way up his spine.

He approaches nonetheless, because he is nothing if not a professional, and it wouldn’t do to have his handlers think he’s suddenly afraid of a criminal. The alpha laid out on the silver table does not move, but for the slow rise and fall of his chest. He’s classically handsome—broad shoulders, long legs, square jaw and straight nose. Blonde hair just a touch too in-place to be truly messy, glasses folded neatly next to his head. He’s dressed in suit trousers and a well-fitting dress shirt, suspenders emphasizing the V of his torso, a bowtie loose and crumpled around his neck. Not one item of clothing is not stained with at least some blood.

Alfred F. Jones. Likely one of the most dangerous men in the country, and he isn’t even a metahuman. Simply a man good with a gun and better with his words, who seems to have lost his conscience somewhere along the way. Most of the public knows him as Hitman, though the man makes no effort to conceal his identity. What use is a secret identity to someone who has been untraceable as a civilian since the moment he was born?

Arthur comes to a stop next to the table, eyes tracing over Jones’ body to take a quick stock of the situation. Jones is strapped down, one across his chest, two across each leg and arm. There’s blood matted in his hair and a gash down the length of one arm. Nothing looks broken, though a tear in his shirt shows a hint of deep violet bruising on the left side of his ribcage, so perhaps some broken ribs will need to be reset. That’s easy enough, particularly with telekinetic powers.

It’s quick work, divesting Jones of his shirt. The straps holding him down are somewhat of a hindrance but Arthur manages around them anyway. Beneath the white cotton is a muscled body covered with scars.

Arthur does not flush, but he bites his lip out of view of the camera. He can hardly be faulted for finding the man attractive; Jones wields charm like yet another weapon, and more than one person has fallen victim to it and gotten killed for their trouble. Arthur, at least, is not so easily made a victim.

A more thorough check tells him Jones’ ribs aren’t broken, merely bruised. The blood in his hair seems to be from a wound that’s already closed on its own, so Arthur mends that easily. The gash on his arm, however, is a good deal more violent. It’s no longer bleeding but it’s rather deep, enough that it could have been fatal if coagulants hadn’t been administered at the scene.

Arthur works, occasionally glancing up at Jones’ face while he carefully disinfects and treats the wound. The man is still as a statue, breathing soft and slow, face settled into a mask of serenity. He doesn’t look like a psychotic murderer-for-hire with a penchant for gratuitous violence, but. Well. Arthur is a small, slender omega with messy ash-blonde hair and freckles. He knows all about being more than meets the eye.

He stitches up Jones’ wound with careful diligence, slim fingers working quickly over a needle and thread. It’s almost like embroidery, a hobby Arthur once shared with his mother between bouts of learning to set his brothers’ broken bones and rip apart the molecules of a gun with his mind.

The next time he glances up at Jones’ face, bright blue eyes are staring back.

Arthur does not jump. He isn’t new to this, after all. But his hands do jerk, tugging just a touch too hard on Jones’ stitches.

A wide, vicious grin spreads across Jones’ face, revealing sharp alpha canines and a spark of something dangerous in his eyes. “Hey, beautiful,” he says, in an accent too mild to be pure Yank. “You look good enough to eat.”

There’s an undertone in Jones’ voice that has something parallel to fear thrumming in Arthur’s blood. He ignores it, narrowing his attention back to the needle and surgical thread in his hands. “I wasn’t aware you partook in cannibalism, Mr. Jones,” he says, his tone light and flippant, the tugging of the thread just a touch rougher than it was before. Jones will not know Arthur’s fear. Nobody has, not in years, not truly. He put on a very good show for the government officials who offered him freedom, but Arthur Kirkland is not an omega easily swayed by intimidating men.

Jones laughs. His body shakes with it, still caught beneath heavy leather straps. When the laughter dies down he’s staring at Arthur again, eyes glinting like a predator.

Arthur has not often felt like prey. He decides, quite emphatically, that he doesn’t like it.

No matter the twist of arousal in his stomach.

“That’s funny. You’re funny.” Jones’ fingers flex, his wrists trapped in place with black leather. Muscles shift under Arthur’s hands as though the wound doesn’t hurt at all. “God, but you’re a gorgeous little thing. Does everyone at Labyrinth get this treatment or is it just me?” His head tips, a dangerous smile tugging at his mouth. “I hope it’s just me. I don’t like to share.”

Arthur rolls his eyes. “Then it’s a good thing I don’t belong to you, Mr. Jones.”

Jones’ nostrils flare. “You don’t belong to anyone else, though,” he says. He draws in a breath, long and careful, like he’s savouring Arthur’s scent on the air. His eyes flash, teeth baring in another grin. “You’re unclaimed. Ripe for the picking. I bet you a hundred to one you’ve never even let an alpha stick his dick inside you.”

Colour flushes Arthur’s cheeks but he ignores it, tying off the end of Jones’ stitches. “I think you’ll find my experience with alphas is none of your business,” he snaps, his voice a little harder.

It only makes Jones’ grin spread wider. “I’ll make it my business,” he drawls, and a bit of southern slips into his voice. Right. Ever the chameleon. “You’re lucky these restraints are in place, sweetheart. You have _no idea_ what I’d do to you if I could get a hand on you.” He hums, low and dangerous in his chest. “I could make you _scream_.”

His threats don’t make Arthur tremble, though the tone of Jones’ voice gives him pause. Despite his particular brand of villainy, Jones has never been a rapist. He seduces, and coerces, and manipulates, but every villain has their own lines.

He does not, however, doubt that Jones would make him scream given the chance. From Jones’ reputation alone Arthur knows that he has a penchant for butchery when angered. So Arthur backs up half a step, moving his supplies back to the medical tray.

“You’re afraid of me. That’s really cute, actually.” Jones’ tone is smug. It only barely betrays the monster underneath the classic alpha exterior. “You should be, sweetheart. I’m a dangerous man.”

Arthur glances at the man over his shoulder. It’s a mistake the moment he does it; Jones is smirking, eyes carving a slope up Arthur’s back, and he realizes belatedly that in this position he must look _coy_.

He turns fully, leaning back against a hard silver table. “I’ve met a lot of dangerous men.”

Jones’ grin turns wild. “You’ve never met anyone like me.”

Arthur lifts an eyebrow. “All alphas are like you. Arrogant and self-absorbed.” He crosses his arms. “That you have skill with a gun changes nothing.”

“I’d argue it changes a lot of things.” Jones stares at him, hard and careful, like he’s carving Arthur up somewhere deep inside. It’s a new feeling. Unsettling, despite the buzz just at the base of his spine. “But that’s not really what makes me special. And that’s not why you’re afraid of me, is it, beautiful?”

“You’re chaos personified,” Arthur says easily, “and I have no interest in dying just yet.”

Jones barks out a laugh. “Pretty sure playing nurse to supervillains isn’t a job for someone afraid of death.” His eyes narrow, carefully considering, and then he laughs again. His head tips back, exposing the long column of his throat, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows. When his eyes land on Arthur again, it’s like his gaze is piercing right through his skin. “You’d look good in one of those nurse costumes. A pink one. Pink’d go real pretty with those eyes.”

Arthur’s lip curls. “How very alpha of you.”

Jones smiles wider. “Red would look even better. I bet you’d make a lot of pretty noises if I slit your throat.”

That is decidedly less stereotypically alpha. Arthur doesn’t give Jones the satisfaction of telling him that. Instead he narrows his eyes, carefully unrolling his bloody surgical gloves, turning them inside-out. Jones’ gaze does not leave his, still bright and dangerous like a wild animal’s.

Arthur tosses the gloves in a garbage bin, wipe his hands together as if to brush away imaginary dirt. “I’ve taken a look at your wounds,” he tells Jones, sidling closer so he can straighten out his tray of surgical tools. “Unless you have any further medical complications you would like me to take a look at, we’re finished.” He glares at Jones, daring the man to make some immature quip about some part of anatomy that needs Arthur’s immediate care. He wouldn’t be the first alpha strapped to Arthur’s table to do so, and certainly wouldn’t be the last.

To his credit, Jones does nothing of the sort. He simply laughs. This one is a softer thing, nearly seductive, and Arthur ignores the shiver that runs up his spine from the feel of it sliding across his skin.

“Oh man,” Jones says. “You’re a lot of fun.” He grins, showing bright white teeth and canines that are likely sharp enough to rip a man’s throat out. “I think I’ll kill you slow. Really make you beg for it.” His hand twitches, silver flashing over his fingers too fast for Arthur to see. A ring, perhaps? “I bet you look real nice when you cry.”

Now it’s Arthur’s turn to laugh. Just a small, simple thing. “If you’re hoping to see me cry, Mr. Jones, you will be waiting a very long time.” He hasn’t cried in years.

Jones shrugs, as much as he can while still strapped to the table. “Maybe,” he says easily. “Don’t discount something without evidence, gorgeous.”

“Burden of proof falls upon you.” Arthur wheels away his tray of tools. There will be someone in to disinfect them later, after Jones has been transported to a cell and locked away for good. For now, Arthur’s job is done. “You’re immobilized, Mr. Jones. Your threats are idle.”

Jones laughs. “I was so hoping you would say that.”

Then there is a soft _snick_ of metal through leather, a pounding heartbeat in Arthur’s ears as he spins on his heel—and then Jones is off the table and on top of him, knees caging in his legs, hands curled tight around his wrists.

Jones’ grin is manic, eyes wild and burning like brilliant blue fire. He’s trapped Arthur’s wrists up near his head, holding him down with barely a grunt of effort, head dipped low enough that his hair nearly brushes the tip of Arthur’s nose.

Real, visceral panic begins to rise in Arthur’s throat like bile. He swallows it down, and does not miss the obvious way Jones tracks the motion with his eyes. Arthur has been playing this game too long, however, to let any fear show in his eyes. His glare is hard as he stares up into Jones’ wild grin, fingers curled around nothing, heartbeat skittering like a cornered rabbit.

Jones narrows his eyes. The grin remains as though it’s been painted on, blindingly white. “Gonna cry for me, beautiful?”

“Bite me, Jones.”

Something sharp and dangerous lights up Jones’ eyes. He moves lightning fast, burying his face into Arthur’s neck. Sharp teeth close around the flesh joining Arthur’s neck and shoulder, painful enough that a cry catches in his throat, hard enough that he feels the sting of blood welling up from the wound. Instinct immediately presses at Arthur’s indignant fury—submit, lie back, surrender yourself to this alpha—but he grits his teeth.

It lasts but a second. Then the door slides open and armed guards pour in, aiming assault rifles at Jones’ back. One of them screams at Jones to get off, to put his hands behind his head, along with a fair amount of namecalling.

Jones unlatches his jaw from around Arthur’s neck slowly. His tongue presses against the wound just enough to make Arthur wince, pain and pleasure mingling into something heady and intoxicating at the base of his skull. He glares at Jones when the man meets his eyes nonetheless, and holds Jones’ penetrating stare as the man is wrestled into cuffs and a needle is plunged into his neck. Blue eyes begin to go cloudy but Jones never once looks away, never once stops grinning until his head lolls forward and he loses consciousness completely.

For a moment, Arthur simply keeps glaring. Then he sits up, rubbing at the bruises sure to form around his wrists.

“Mr. Kirkland!” A guard has knelt down in front of him. A young beta woman, far too pretty to be in a place like the Labyrinth. “Are you alright?”

Arthur does not allow his hand to shake as he brings it up to the bite. His pale hands come away smudged with bright red blood, dripping down the length of his fingers. It stings with each movement of his neck, though not worse than any number of scrapes Arthur has gotten in his civilian life.

Rage and indignance and no small measure of humiliation flare up in Arthur’s gut. “That bloody—Houdini _bastard_ ,” he snarls, glaring at Jones’ limp form as he’s being dragged from the room.

Jones gave him a _claiming bite_. A fucking claiming bite. It isn’t a mating bite—not even remotely close, thank God—but Arthur can still feel the endorphins from it. There’s a humming in his blood that swells and ebbs with every beat of his heart, as though he’s some kind of bloody omega in a romance novel. Arthur knows well that a bite this deep, particularly from an alpha as powerful as Jones, will not be fading for at least another two weeks.

Damn him. If Arthur had any proper function of his telekinesis, Jones would be a mess of blood and viscera by now.

Fortunately, Arthur’s government-issued drugs prevent anything of the sort. He would so dearly hate to be put back in a cell, after two years of playing this game. At the very least, he likely won’t be seeing Jones again.

* * *

The claiming bite hasn’t yet completely disappeared some three weeks later. Arthur hasn’t seen Jones in that entire time, though his superiors did give him some idea of how he escaped his bonds. Sleight of hand to grab one of Arthur’s unused scalpels, quick work to free an arm and his chest, and following that is something nobody seems able to describe as anything but the work of an escape artist.

As a child, Arthur always loved escape artists, and by extension magicians. His mother had a small modicum of real magical power. Jones is no magician. He’s a force of nature.

Still, Arthur’s job continues, though he wears significantly higher collars and covers up any of Jones’ lingering scent with a neutral omega cologne. Several fights break out amongst the less dangerous prisoners, those that aren’t kept in solitary confinement like Jones and a number of psychopathic metahumans. Arthur patches them all up one by one.

It is nearly a month before he meets Jones again.

The day begins as any other. Arthur is called into Labyrinth, and so in he goes, because he’s on somewhat of a short leash and wandering away will only tighten it further around his throat. Cole Shauser is there to escort him to one of the medical rooms as usual. Arthur cannot see his gaze through the mirrored sunglasses, but he can feel the hot slide of eyes up his form, tracing the length of his narrow legs and the curve of his waist, and he curls his lip in distaste.

“Ready for another one?” Shauser asks. He doesn’t wait for Arthur to answer, simply starts walking. Experience has made it very clear that the interest Shauser has in him doesn’t extend to anything he might have to say. It’s quintessentially alpha. “Better be careful with this one, Kirkland.”

There’s a smile hidden behind Shauser’s mirrored glasses. A secret he won’t divulge. Not for the first time, Arthur bemoans the suppressing medication preventing him from peering inside Shauser’s head to see what joke he thinks he’s playing. If only for a moment. Arthur has always hated being kept out of the loop.

Shauser’s hand presses a hot brand into Arthur’s lower back as he steps through the door. Arthur whirls around to snap at him but the door is already sliding shut.

“Now that’s a sight for sore eyes.”

Arthur doesn’t jump at the sound of Jones’ voice, syrupy with heat and thrumming with something a great deal more dangerous. He takes a short, careful breath, before he turns to face the man fully, face schooled into a bored and distant expression.

Jones looks much the same as he did last time. Now, though, he’s dressed in the pale orange prison fatigues given to every inmate at Labyrinth, the coveralls slipped off his shoulders and instead tied at his waist. There are more leather bands holding him in a chair this time, as well as several metal cuffs and a strange black chain Arthur knows is reserved only for criminals with super-strength. He’s also been outfitted with one of Labyrinth’s signature black shock collars, designed to irritate, then incapacitate, and eventually execute if need be.

A grin stretches wide across Jones’ face. “Hey sweetheart,” he drawls, deep south slipping into his subtle accent. He tips his head to the side, staring up at Arthur through his lashes, as though he’s a petulant child rather than a known criminal. “Miss me?”

“Hardly, Mr. Jones,” Arthur says, narrowing his eyes. “Not after the parting gift you left me.”

The bite itches under Arthur’s pressed white dress shirt, where Jones’ eyes seem to have locked onto. Jones doesn’t look away from Arthur’s neck as he smiles. Heat creeps unbidden up the back of Arthur’s spine, a heat he resolutely ignores. Instead he steps further into the room, coming to a stop two feet away from Jones, staring at the preliminary damage. Bruising, on his cheekbones and over one bright blue eye. His nose appears to have been broken and reset, though blood still smudges his upper lip. The wicked cut above his eye, however, seems to be what he’s truly here for.

It looks as though it was made with a knife. Certainly not just a simple splitting of skin from being punched one too many times. Arthur presses his lips together and steps closer, leaning down to take a closer look at it. “How does a man in solitary confinement get slashed with a knife?” he wonders aloud.

“You smell good,” is Jones’ reply. Arthur’s eyes flick down to see Jones grinning up at him, nostrils flared wide. “You smell like me.”

Arthur curls his lip. “You left quite the mark.”

“So it’s still there, then?” A certain smugness flashes dangerously in Jones’ electric blue eyes. Proprietary alpha, down to the very core. Though he’s a good deal more dangerous than most alphas. It isn’t a concession Arthur will ever allow him, however, so he simply leans back up to his full height and lifts an eyebrow at Jones, unimpressed. Jones doesn’t seem affected by Arthur’s contempt. “I knew it’d stick. You smell really good, you know that?”

Arthur rolls his eyes and steps away, turning to fetch his supplies. They’ve placed the table far away from Jones, this time. “I’ve been told,” he says drily, dumping disinfectant on a sterile cloth. “Washing regularly is quite useful in that regard.”

When he turns back to Jones, the man is shaking his head. “Nah, not what I meant.” His grin curls wide, danger sparking in his eyes. “You smell like you’re meant for me.”

“And you sound like you’re projecting,” Arthur quips back. “Is solitary rotting your brain already?”

Jones only smiles. Good riddance. He’s a nuisance when he’s talking, and Arthur takes the opportunity to get to work on the cut. It’s a vicious one, deep enough to need stitches, and though there’s no evidence of any painkillers Jones doesn’t even flinch when the needle slides through his skin. He keeps his eyes on Arthur, hard and unsettling, but he says nothing.

Arthur finishes quickly and efficiently. He turns, dumping his supplies back on the tray—after a quick check that nothing has disappeared—and busies himself with tugging off his gloves.

“I thought about ripping your throat out,” Jones says, almost conversationally but for the content of his sentence. Arthur turns to face him, expression impassive in the face of Jones’ grin. “I kinda wish I had. It’d be real fun to watch you bleed out.”

A laugh tumbles out of Arthur’s throat. “I hope you aren’t expecting me to _thank_ you for not killing me.”

“I dunno, a little gratitude might be nice.” Jones smirks. His eyes drag blistering heat up the length of Arthur’s body, catching on every angle and curve. Warmth pools in Arthur’s belly, a tingling sort of thing that nearly makes his toes curl in his shoes. “Next time we see each other, you should get yourself a little nurse costume. Something with a short skirt.” Arthur ignores the wicked lilt in Jones’ voice, fixing him with a dead stare. “Has anyone ever told you you’re beautiful?”

“You have,” Arthur points out, rather drily. “Multiple times.”

Jones bares his teeth in a grin. “You’ve got such a pretty neck. I can’t wait to get my hands around it.” Arthur says nothing, only stares at him, and the grin curls even wider. “What, not gonna call me out on it this time? Afraid I’ll get out again?”

Arthur lifts an eyebrow, eyes flicking down to the myriad restraints holding Jones down. “If I am?” He looks into Jones’ eyes again, holding the stare. “I still have no interest in dying, Mr. Jones, despite what you may think about my occupation.”

“I think I’d really like killing you,” Jones says, as though Arthur never spoke at all. “I really wanna get under your skin. Make you _scream_.” He leans forward, as far as the restraints will allow, eyes sharp with the sort of danger Arthur can feel prickling at the top of his spine. “By the time I’m done with you, you’ll be _begging_ for me to kill you.” His silver tongue pokes out, just enough to skate over the tip of one pointed canine. “God, you’ll be so pretty when you beg.”

“I don’t beg, Mr. Jones,” Arthur says. “For my life or anything else.”

It isn’t entirely true. He may have begged for mercy, for help, for someone to show him the light. But that was all to play the part of the lost, wayward omega, seeking strong guidance to lead him away from the grip of darkness. Arthur has never begged, not truly. Not sincerely.

“Oh, good,” Jones says, almost nonchalant were it not for the murderous glint in his eye. “I hate sloppy seconds.” Something about his expression—the set of his eyebrows, the quirk to his lips—makes Arthur realize the man is no longer talking about begging. Or, at least, not exclusively. “I bet there’s a lot of things you don’t do, sweetheart,” Jones drawls. “I bet I could make you beg for any of ‘em if I tried hard enough.”

Arthur raises his eyebrows. “I doubt even you could make me beg for American coffee, Mr. Jones.”

“You’ve got a mouth on you, huh.”

“So I’ve been told.” Arthur glances up at the camera hidden in the ceiling, imperceptible if one doesn’t know where it is. Then he glances to Jones, dismissive as he turns back towards the door. “Unless you have anything else, Mr. Jones, we’re done for today. Do try not to get yourself in any more trouble.”

* * *

The third time, Arthur is at least expecting it. Jones has been transferred out of solitary, despite how monumentally terrible of an idea that is, and as usual, shoving a whole mess of alpha criminals and supervillains in close quarters together leads to bloody pissing contests and escalated violence. And as Labyrinth’s resident nurse, of course Arthur is left to clean up the mess his superiors have made in their idiocy.

It is a miracle, he thinks privately as he’s being led to the infirmary, that nobody ended up dead. Despite no evidence of being metahuman, Alfred F. Jones is almost preternaturally strong and fast, and clearly knows how to kill a man in an instant. Instead he instigated a fight that began with heavy fists and ended with a shock to the neck, and now Arthur has two patients to clean up.

He sighs silently as he follows Shauser. Jones is very quickly becoming a thorn in his side simply by virtue of existing.

This time when he enters the infirmary, there are two chairs instead of one. As expected Jones is trussed up in one of them, chained and strapped to what Arthur would call excess for anyone else. In the other seat is Emerson Grey, better known to the public as Iron Menace. He’s a tall, stocky alpha who always looks somewhat odd when he doesn’t have his signature protective metal casing. He is also an absolute nuisance, throwing himself too hard into fights, as though he’s consistently forgetting that the collar around his neck prevents him from covering his entire body in metal.

Jones’ mouth tugs into a grin the moment Arthur steps through the door. It pulls on new bruises blooming on his face, tugging open the split in his lip near enough to make it bleed. “Nice seeing you again, beautiful,” he croons.

Though Arthur has always had a weakness for the particular softness of a southern accent, he simply nods at Jones. “Mr. Jones.” Then he turns to Grey, offering him the same greeting. “Mr. Grey.”

Grey growls, shuffling as much as the straps over his body will allow. “Don’t call me that,” he snarls, baring his teeth like a wild animal. If he thinks it will intimidate Arthur, he is sorely mistaken. And yet he keeps trying it, yelling and growling and generally being an annoyance whenever Arthur is forced to treat him. Arthur ignores it, walking briskly to his tray of supplies. “My name is Iron Menace, you little _whore_.”

“Your name is Emerson Connor Grey,” Arthur snaps easily. “I do not call my patients by childish nicknames.” He narrows his eyes at Grey. “And I do not appreciate namecalling. Will we have to gag you again, Mr. Grey?”

“You gag people here?” Jones’ grin cracks his face wide open, eyes sparkling with something dangerous that curls in the pit of Arthur’s stomach. “Kinky.”

Arthur lifts an eyebrow. “Are you volunteering?”

“Nah, I’d rather be on the other end of things.” Jones leans forward, eyes gone dark and hooded, mouth twisted into something softer, something more menacing. “You’d look real good with a gag in that pretty mouth of yours, sweetheart.” Then he leans back with an easy shrug. “Actually, I’d rather hear you scream. I bet you’d be a screamer.” His eyes light up, and Arthur’s neck tingles where the bite finally faded a week ago. “The quiet ones are always screamers.”

Arthur snorts, stepping closer to Jones to take a closer look at him. “That’s quite the generalization, Mr. Jones.”

“Don’t fucking ignore me,” Grey spits, a growl rumbling from somewhere deep in his chest. An acrid, cloying scent floods the room, clinging in Arthur’s nose and nearly making him cough. Oh, bloody brilliant. Pheromones from a whining alpha. “One day I’m gonna get out of this goddamn chair and then you’ll be fucking sorry, you uptight slut.” He grins, wild and manic, his scent pounding in Arthur’s head like a particularly annoying headache. “I’ll fuck that tight little ass of yours until you’re begging—”

His mouth snaps shut. It takes Arthur but a moment to realize it was his own powers that did it. “That is quite enough, Mr. Grey,” he hisses, teeth grit to keep it from becoming a snarl. “Speak to me in that way again and I’ll have you thrown in solitary for three months.”

A quiet, dangerous sort of calm has settled over the room. It no longer smells of Grey’s frustration and fury. No, now the smell is stronger, deeper, wrapping itself around Arthur’s shoulders and dragging him towards the edge of some oblivion. He ignores it, of course, but he can’t help but follow the scent to Jones.

Jones is staring at Grey. He doesn’t look outright murderous, nor does he even appear to be angry. But his eyes are bright and blue, locked on Grey’s furiously red face, and the twist of his mouth promises something that has fear tingling in Arthur’s spine.

Jones, very carefully, cocks his head to one side. “I don’t share, Emerson,” he says, enunciating clearly, all drawl of his southern accent gone.

The potent cloud of pheromones in the room is quickly becoming overbearing. Arthur grabs Jones’ chin, forcing his head back to face Arthur so he can inspect the damage done. “There is nothing for you to share, Mr. Jones,” he says. The wounds on Jones’ face are superficial at best, but his right shoulder does seem to be hanging limply, and one of the fingers on his left hand is bent out of place. It’s as though he threw a punch with his fist curled the wrong way.

Arthur lifts his gaze sharply to glare at Jones. All he gets in return is an easy grin, daring him to say something.

Well. If Jones wants to get himself in trouble as an excuse to end up in the infirmary, that’s his prerogative. He certainly wouldn’t be the first, nor will he be the last, and Arthur has dealt with criminals far less interesting to talk to. So he straightens, slipping away from Jones and heading to Grey.

Grey is in far worse shape than Jones. The bruises covering his face are purpling and swollen, nearly obscuring one of his beady black eyes. A ring of bruises peeks up from the collar around his throat as though Jones was choking him, and there’s an unmistakeable indent of sharp alpha canines in the meat of his shoulder.

Arthur rolls his eyes, lip curling. _Alphas_. Always the same.

He ignores the bruises on the both of them. Bruises are reminders, in Labyrinth, of what happens when prisoners misbehave. Arthur is to leave them alone. He does disinfect the bite on Grey’s shoulder, wrapping it with gauze to stop the steady, slow ooze of blood. Grey stares at him the entire time, teeth bared in a near-constant rumbling growl. Frankly, Arthur couldn’t give less of a shit about his whining.

When he moves onto Jones, the man is just staring at him, the hint of a smile lingering along the corners of his mouth. It’s a look he wears equally as well as the wide, bright-eyed grins of a man gone manic. There is much about Jones that is designed to entice, to tug at the strings of attraction and curiosity, and though Arthur is affected he can at least hold himself above succumbing to any of it.

“You’ve gotten sloppy,” Arthur tells him with no small hint of derision, eyes lingering on the limp hang of his right arm. “I would warn you this will hurt, but I’m sure you already know that.”

Jones laughs, clear and bright against Grey’s ever-present hum of a growl. “Sweetheart, I’ve been hurt a lot worse than this.” True to his word, he barely makes a sound when Arthur shoves his arm back into place, relocating the joint of his shoulder with a little extra nudging from his telekinesis. Jones simply grins, one of his canines still stained a slight red with Grey’s blood. “I mean, I’ve been stabbed before, that sucked way more than this.”

“I’m sure,” Arthur says, as he’s setting Jones’ dislocated finger back into place and taping it to the adjacent finger. It’s easy to ignore the warmth of Jones’ hands, the wide spread of his palms and the long, nimble length of his fingers. They’re hands that have committed great atrocities, hands impossibly skilled, and some part of Arthur hidden in the deep corners of his brain is impressed.

“Have you ever been stabbed before, beautiful?”

As questions go, it isn’t especially innocent. Arthur glances up at Jones’ face to see the man grinning at him, eyes nearly glowing from the shadow of his brow.

Memories sting sharp and vaguely painful in the back of his mind. It was only a blade in his thigh, but it still hurt. More annoying was the hovering of his brothers after it happened, pushing him back into bed as though he was an invalid. Hardly fair of them, after all, as they’d gone to work with still-healing bullet wounds for as long as Arthur had been treating them.

He doesn’t say this, of course. He simply narrows his eyes, stepping back from Jones gracefully. “Again, Mr. Jones, that’s none of your business.”

“I’d love to gut you,” Jones says, easy and conversational as though they’re discussing the weather. His eyes trace a long, slow path up Arthur’s body, lingering on his hips and his waist and the spot where the bite once was. “I wouldn’t wanna carve you up or anything, you’re way too gorgeous for that. You’re so skinny, I feel like I could just push you around and you wouldn’t even be able to fight back. And God, your wrists are so tiny.” His grin lights up. “Betcha I could hold ‘em in one hand.”

“Shame you’ll never be able to find out,” Arthur hums.

“So Hitman gets to say whatever the fuck he wants?” The same bitter, angry scent clouds the air. Grey wrestles against the straps holding him down, teeth bared at Arthur, dull black eyes burning with something akin to hatred. “Are you afraid I’m gonna follow up?” A wild grin stretches across his face. “More afraid of me than him, huh? You should be, skinny little bitch. One day I’m gonna get out of this chair and then you’ll be sorry. I’ll breed you like a bitch in heat, make you gag for my knot—”

His mouth snaps shut, nearly slicing off the sharp point of his tongue, and this time Arthur knows he did it. “You will do _nothing_ ,” he snarls, hands curled into fists to disguise the minute tremors. “I hold all the power here, Emerson Grey, and your threats do not frighten me.”

It’s a lie. Jones’ vague, airy threats of sexual violence do not make him worry. Threats of real violence, yes, but Jones is not a rapist.

Grey is.

He’s also an idiot. Logically Arthur knows that Grey has no means of escaping and enacting his threats. After twenty-five years of being an omega, however, Arthur cannot turn off the warning alarms in his brain of an alpha pushing at his boundaries. He’s remained safe in a world full of criminals his entire life thanks to his instincts; he’s not about to forget them now just because of a few straps of metal and leather.

“Someone get in here and get rid of this,” Arthur hisses at the ceiling, gesturing vaguely to Grey’s entire body. “Give him a long rest in solitary.”

Armed guards appear only seconds later. How charming that they don’t come in while Arthur is being threatened; no, only when he calls for them. At any rate they’re efficient now that they’re in here, wheeling Grey out of the room. Shauser nods at Arthur before the door closes, though Arthur can feel the stare behind his mirrored sunglasses.

“Emerson’s really annoying.” Arthur turns to see Jones still staring at the door, face caught in a frozen smile. There’s violence in his eyes, bright and vicious, like an animal gone rabid. It isn’t even directed at Arthur and yet he feels it in his toes, the confusing war between fight-or-flight. “I dunno how you haven’t killed him yet.”

Truth be told, Arthur would love to. But living in a cell is far worse than living on a leash. So he shakes his head, crossing narrow arms over his chest. “I’m not you, Mr. Jones.”

“Maybe I’ll kill him for you,” Jones suggest, eyes finally dragging to meet Arthur’s gaze. One could almost mistake his grin for earnest, boyishly charming as he flashes a hint of sharp teeth. “I don’t know a lot about history, but that’s what alphas used to do, right? Killed each other over pretty omegas like you? Presented the hearts of their enemies as courting gifts?”

A laugh tumbles from Arthur’s mouth. “Are you courting me, Mr. Jones?”

“Not sure yet,” Jones says with a grin. Cheeky. “I still definitely wanna kill you.”

“I’m almost certain that would be counterproductive,” Arthur quips back, willing away the smile threatening to tug at his mouth.  He turns away from the man, unrolling his gloves, dumping them on the tray of supplies.

“You never told me you were a metahuman.” There’s a dangerous edge to Jones’ voice now, a trace of something bright and almost angry.

Arthur snorts. “You seem to think you have a right to know anything about me at all, Mr. Jones.”

Jones is silent. Arthur turns to see the man staring at him, a certain consideration in his gaze. It drags out a good few seconds longer than Arthur would like, stirring warmth and arousal in the pit of his stomach. Finally Jones nods, the grin coming back in full force. “You’re not a superhero.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Good.” Jones smirks at him, head tipping to one side. “I hate superheroes.”

Arthur lifts an eyebrow. “I’m not surprised.”

“They’re fun to kill, though,” Jones says, leaning forward. Immediately the conversation feels more private, more intimate, the weight of it settling over Arthur’s shoulders. “Everyone’s got a weakness, and it’s fun figuring that out. You’ve got powers, right? Telekinesis? What’s your weakness?”

Government-issued drugs, is the answer that Arthur doesn’t share. Instead he rolls his eyes. “That’s hardly something I would tell the likes of you, Mr. Jones.”

Jones smiles wide. “Afraid I’d use it against you?”

“Explicitly.”

Huffing a laugh, Jones leans back in his seat, head tipping back against the high back of the seat. The atmosphere in the room settles into something calmer, less electric, though the buzz in Arthur’s spine remains. “I like how honest you are about being afraid of me,” Jones says after a moment. “It’s refreshing. You have no idea how many morons try to pretend they’re not scared. But they’re always shaking anyway, so what’s even the point? It doesn’t look brave.” His eyes lock with Arthur’s. “It just looks stupid.”

“I’m not a stupid man.”

“No, you’re not,” Jones agrees jovially. “You’re pretty clever, sweetheart.”

Arthur hums. “So I’ve been told.” It’s been both a compliment and an insult for his entire life, a statement of admiration and a complaint borne of frustration and insecurity. Jones, to his credit, does not seem frustrated or insecure. There is a certain sort of admiration in his voice, but a certain edge as well, as though he would truly love nothing more than to knock Arthur down a peg. It’s certainly the most threatening compliment Arthur has ever received.

“Emerson’s lucky he’s in solitary,” Jones says suddenly, as Arthur is about to leave. He glances over his shoulder to see Jones grinning at him, eyes alight with fury. “Otherwise he’d be dead. I meant what I said, y’know, about not sharing.”

“I still don’t belong to you,” Arthur snaps.

The grin stretches even wider, blinding in the harsh light of the infirmary. “Yet.”

Arthur narrows his eyes. “Goodbye, Mr. Jones.” Then he leaves, brushing past Shauser on his way out.

* * *

“What’s your name, sweetheart?” Jones asks, the fourth time. There’s a gash across his left pectoral, sure to become another scar amongst the pale lacerations already littering the skin of his chest. Arthur’s in the process of cleaning it out when Jones asks the question and he can’t keep himself from stilling, disinfecting cloth still pressed against the jagged edge of the cut. It’s a slip-up, one Jones has surely noticed.

A moment passes. Arthur continues with his work. “You don’t have the clearance to know that, I’m afraid,” he tells Jones, eyes locked on the red beneath Jones’ sun-kissed skin.

“Guess I’ll just have to keep calling you pet names.” Jones doesn’t seem especially perturbed by this. Arthur glances up at him, their faces barely more than half a foot apart, and Jones only grins at him like a schoolboy getting away with whatever trouble he’s caused. “Hope you don’t mind too much, beautiful.”

Arthur doesn’t mind. His body is traitorous and hums with warmth every time one of those infuriating names slips out of Jones’ mouth, in whatever accent he happens to be affecting at the moment. He can never let Jones know this, however, so he twists his mouth into a grimace and narrows his eyes at the scar across Jones’ chest.

“It’s an unfortunate circumstance, but one I can deal with,” he says, and Jones shakes with a laugh.

“I think you might like it,” he croons, the sweetness of his voice offset by danger lingering just beneath. Arthur does look up at that, eyes narrowed, completely unimpressed, but Jones simply smiles at him and dips his head as close as he can with all the restraints. “I think it gets you going.”

Arthur stares at him. “I think you may be losing your mind,” he says coolly, pressing into Jones’ cut just a touch too hard.  “Incarceration is rotting your brain.”

“Maybe.” Jones shrugs, the predatory glint still bright in his eyes. “Or maybe you’re not as subtle as you like to think.”

“It’s not a matter of being subtle, Mr. Jones. That would imply I have something to hide.”

Jones says nothing. He only smiles, displaying sharp canines and the bright white of his teeth, nostrils flaring as he breathes in deep. Something flashes sharp and brilliant in his blue eyes, something that has fear and arousal curling in tandem around the base of Arthur’s spine. But Jones continues to stay silent, and Arthur is more than content to let the man stop talking.

Jones’ voice is a weapon of its own, one he wields as easily as a gun or a knife. And like the myriad threats of violence Jones has thrown at him, almost casually, Arthur has no interest in falling victim to the power of Jones’ words. He’s a cleverer man than that.

* * *

He sees Jones three more times over the stretch of the entire month. Each time is much like the last; Jones switches between threatening to kill him in new and inventive ways and flirting incessantly with an alarming frequency, always sporting the same near-manic smile, promising terrible, wonderful things. Were Arthur anyone else it might’ve given him emotional whiplash; as it is, he can’t help but find it interesting. Charming in its own right, though he’ll never admit it. Jones is the most dangerous man he’s ever met, capable of the sort of destruction even Arthur’s overwhelming telekinetic powers could never quite match.

Arthur is powerful. Alfred F. Jones is an agent of chaos.

He never allows Jones more than an inch. Jones is the type to, when given an inch, take miles and miles. He pushes boundaries until they break and then he makes his own rules. Even strapped down and chained he’s the master of his own life.

It’s something Arthur admires about him. The government still has a leash around his neck, despite his quaint little house by the river and weekly trips to the nearby organic grocery. Jones is stuck in prison and he’s still somehow freer than Arthur.

And though it should be impossible—he has no way of knowing Arthur’s position in life—there’s no doubt in Arthur’s mind that Jones somehow knows.

* * *

Pre-heat always makes Arthur cranky. His skin is uncomfortably warm, pulled tight over the jut of his bones. Everything is so bloody _annoying_ when he’s in pre-heat. Inmates are far more aggravating, particularly the alphas—they can always _smell_ it on him and Arthur has held himself back several times from breaking a nose. The cramps, however, are the worst; vague, constant pains thrumming in the pit of his gut, a warm sort of pain that never fades no matter how many painkillers Arthur takes.

At least he’s on birth control. Before that, his pre-heats were hellish, and his heats a nightmare. Omegas aren’t built to spend a heat alone, but Arthur’s never had any interest in sharing his heat with some government-approved partner or a stranger from a heat agency.

Heats remain the most aggravating part of being an omega, however, which means Arthur is even more annoyed when he’s called into Labyrinth a couple days before he’s meant to go fully into heat. Any other government profession would give him at least three days off before his heat was scheduled to begin, out of safety and liability reasons.

Shauser is there, as usual, to lead him to the infirmary. Arthur can feel eyes dragging hot and ragged over the length of his body, Shauser’s nostrils flared as he breathes in the scent of Arthur’s preheat.

Arthur’s about to snap at him when an explosion rocks the building and plunges them into darkness.

For a moment, all he can see is pure black. Then the emergency lights flicker on, casting the hallway into a deep red. Shauser’s been knocked against the wall, mirrored sunglasses askew on his face, cigarette lost somewhere on the floor. He looks to Arthur with alarm in his gaze, and Arthur almost feels smug about finally seeing the man’s face.

“Power’s gone out,” Shauser says, stating the painfully obvious.

Arthur’s lip curls. “I see that.”

“Communication is out too,” Shauser adds after a moment of fiddling with the communicator in his ear. He swears, pulling out his gun, wildly spinning to check either side of the hall. “Shit, someone’s taken out _all_ power.”

Oh. Shit. If Shauser’s evaluation is correct, some very important security measures are no longer in place. Namely, the power-suppressing shock collars.

Arthur storms forward, slipping his hand into Shauser’s hip holster to grab his sidearm. It’s just a pistol, a Glock, but it’ll be better than nothing. “You’d better be wrong about that,” he snarls at Shauser, ignoring the man’s stuttered protests of Arthur taking his gun. “And stop babbling. What are you, a child?”

At that, Shauser’s eyes narrow. “No, I’m—”

“The power shutdown has locked down all outside doors, yes?”

Shauser nods. “Yeah. Everything but the emergency tunnels.”

Bloody fucking hell. Arthur could have lived a long and happy life without ever having ventured into the tunnels that give Labyrinth its name. Despite that he sighs, checking the magazine of the Glock to see that it’s full. Well, that’s something, at least.

When he looks to Shauser, the man is just staring at him. “I assume you know the way through the tunnels?”

Another nod, this one more assured. “Yeah, I know one of them.” He turns and starts moving, fear bleeding out of his shoulders with every step. “This way, Kirkland. Stay close.” Any other day, it might have been an annoying flirtation. But today Shauser is properly concerned. It could almost be sweet, were it not so patronizing.

Shauser leads him down a confusing maze of hallways that Arthur does his best to keep track of, both of them with their guns ready. Distantly, Arthur hears the sounds of chaos one might expect from a group of villains and metahumans finally running free. He ignores it, keeping his mind focused on the task at hand, one ear listening for anything that may be approaching behind him. It isn’t until Shauser takes a sudden left that real concern begins to swell in Arthur’s gut.

“Where the hell are we going?” he demands, catching up to Shauser’s long stride with a quick jog. “You’re leading us toward the cells.” Towards a very real possibility of metahumans with their powers finally returned. “Are you actively trying to get us killed?”

Shauser scowls at him. “I know one way out through the tunnels,” he snarls, loud and forceful enough that Arthur just barely feels the urge to bow his head in submission. He doesn’t, eyes narrowing into a glare. “The entrance to that is near the cell block. If you don’t like that, then feel free to find a different way out, but this is the only way I’ve got.”

Dammit. No one person knows every passageway through the tunnels. Most personnel of the Labyrinth only know one. Arthur, being as he used to be a supervillain and hasn’t quite earned that level of trust yet, knows none. It’s infuriating, relying on some meathead alpha for his safety, but it wouldn’t be the first time Arthur has been forced to put his life in the hands of someone he distrusts. Shauser will do his best to keep them both alive, Arthur can be sure of that much, so he snaps his mouth shut and gestures for Shauser to continue leading the way.

It has been a rather long time since Arthur has held a gun. He hasn’t had much need to, nor the means to get his hands on one without dipping into his old resources. And those channels have remained closed, as Arthur has no interest in getting arrested. Despite the years the gun still sits right in his hand, a comforting weight that fits to the curve of his palm. Though, he does miss his Walther. There’s a reason it was Bond’s chosen firearm.

They venture through dimly lit hallways, and the distant sounds of chaos and mayhem only grow louder. Arthur tucks himself closer to Shauser, ignoring the sudden flare of annoyance and distrust in his gut. It’s only the preheat. Shauser may be a tremendous prick but he’s wearing body armour and carrying an assault rifle. At the very least he’d make a good meat shield.

“How much further now?” Arthur asks, his voice a low murmur in the relative silence of their lonely hallway.

“We’re almost there,” Shauser says. He’s still projecting an image of calm and confidence but Arthur can hear the tremor in his voice. A bead of sweat rolls down the side of his face, catching in his stubble. He’s nervous. Far more nervous than Arthur is, it would seem, though Arthur trained away his own visible anxieties years ago. Caution is smarter. “Just a few—”

Shauser never gets the chance to finish that sentence. One moment he’s staring at Arthur, rifle held tight against his body, and the next his head is snapping back and bits of blood and brain matter splatter the wall. Shauser slumps, falling against the wall and sliding down, dragging a trail of blood over the cement as his eyes stare unblinking down the hallway.

Arthur follows his dead gaze, immediately raising his own gun, preparing to fire. The sight at the end of the hallway is enough to give him pause. It’s Emerson Grey, completely coated in a thick layer of silvery metal, reflecting the flickering red emergency lights. His shoulders heave with every breath, eyes reflecting red light; the image makes him look like a wild beast, some gruesome monster from a dark fairy tale. A gun lays discarded and forgotten at his feet. At a glance Arthur knows it’s identical to the one in his hand, which means that Shauser isn’t the first guard to die.

“Mr. Grey,” Arthur says coolly. Despite the sudden flicker of fear in his heart his voice does not waver. He’s been raised better than that. “You’re supposed to be in solitary.”

“I got out,” Grey snarls, his words grinding like metal scraping against metal.

“Clearly.” Arthur keeps the gun trained between Grey’s eyes, though he knows it will do him little good when Grey is in this form. Handgun bullets won’t have the power to pierce his organic metal armour. If Arthur had full access to his telekinesis, he could rip Grey apart easily, scatter every bit of him into fine dust of metal and blood and bone. If he had his telepathy, he could force Grey to melt back his armour, and then it would be a simple thing to shoot him. But Arthur’s powers are barely more than a nudge at the back of his mind, and he does not have many options here.

A cruel, jagged grin spreads across Grey’s armoured face. “I was hoping I’d find you,” he rumbles. He still hasn’t taken a step forward, however, and Arthur is grateful for the distance between them. “You’ve got no idea what I’m gonna fucking do to you.”

Arthur’s arms do not waver, though he feels the racing of his own heartbeat in his ears. “I’ve no interest in getting in your way, Mr. Grey,” he says, watching for any sign of movement in Grey’s legs. “If you’re looking for a chance to escape, now might be your best opportunity.”

“I’m not looking for escape,” Grey says, and Arthur’s heart shoots up into his throat. Grey begins stalking forward, the easy gait of a man who knows he’s won. “I’m gonna fuck you up, little slut. Gonna make you cry on my knot.”

Shit. He’s in dire need of a plan. Arthur glances around, seeing nothing but Shauser’s discarded corpse, an assault rifle still clutched against his chest that would do little against Grey’s metal exoskeleton. The hallway is narrow, but not nearly narrow enough that Arthur couldn’t outmanoeuvre Grey. He’s fast when he needs to be. Being the sole omega in a team of alphas meant Arthur often had to get creative, rely more on his wits and his agility than pure brawn, particularly when using telekinesis would have been too messy.

His thoughts screech to a halt, however, when Grey suddenly stops in his approach. The man tilts his head, metallic nostrils flaring. And then his smile turns truly horrific.

Oh, fuck.

“You’re in preheat,” Grey rasps, guttural heat reverberating in the metallic scratch of his voice. “Bet if I shove my cock inside you it’ll get you into heat right away, huh? Then you’ll just be begging for it.” When Grey laughs, the sound echoes through the hall like metal gears grinding together. “Oh, I’m gonna fucking enjoy this.”

He stalks closer. Arthur swallows, refusing to tremble, or do something so foolish as backing away. If he turns and runs, Grey will catch him. That’s an inevitability. But if Arthur can duck around him and head further into the cell block, he may have a chance. Yes, there are plenty of inmates who would love him dead, but there are still as many who would want to get their hands on him as well, and a few more who like him enough to protect him. There would be chaos, and Arthur has always been good at using chaos to disappear into the background. It’s a slim chance, but it’s the only one he has.

So when Grey is close enough to reach out and touch, Arthur fires a single round into the man’s eye.

It won’t do much other than be a distraction. But that’s all Arthur needs. Grey staggers for but a moment, and already Arthur is diving past him, shoving off against the wall and breaking into a sprint.

Behind him, a purely metallic sound of rage echoes through the hall.

It only forces Arthur to run faster. His legs burn with the effort of it but he doesn’t slow, skidding around corners as he makes his way to the cell blocks, spurred on by the thundering footsteps and the crash of metal into cement each time Grey turns a corner behind him. Arthur’s lungs sting with every gasped breath but he ignores it, pushing past the pain. He cannot allow himself to be caught. He can’t. There are few things that Arthur is truly, properly afraid of. What Grey is promising is most certainly one of them.

But it has been two very long years since Arthur was a supervillain, and his body is already protesting. His legs are growing slow and liquid, his head pounding with every stuttering heartbeat.

Upon turning another corner, he stumbles. His feet catch on a slight crack in the metal flooring. Uneven footing makes his legs tangle at the ankles and Arthur barely has the instinct to twist his fall into a messy roll. It’s sloppy and he ends up sprawled on his side rather than back on his feet, shoulders aching from the hard contact against the ground.

A massive force of metal crashes into the cement wall behind him.

Fuck, fuck. Arthur pushes himself up, ignores the acid burn throughout his entire body as he tries to scramble to his feet. He’s nearly at the cell block. Just a bit further, and the chaos of his appearance will give him the exact distraction he needs.

Before he can get his feet underneath him, a metal hand closes around the back of his neck. It holds him down, a solid weight that Arthur isn’t strong enough to fight against. He twists his head just enough to see the barest knife’s-edge of Grey’s cruel grin. With an arm shaking from exertion Arthur lifts the gun, once again firing directly into Grey’s face. This time, the man doesn’t reel back. He tightens his hand around Arthur’s neck and rips the gun from Arthur’s grasp with the other, crushing into an indiscernible lump of metal and tossing it halfway down the long hallway.

“Stupid little _cunt_ ,” Grey snarls. The thud of metal rings through the hall as he falls to his knees behind Arthur, the hard press of his body replacing the grip around his neck. He leans in until his mouth is pressed to Arthur’s ear, the metal warmed by his body and wet from his tongue, and Arthur swallows to suppress the shudder that threatens to wrack his entire body. “I’m gonna fuck you like this,” Grey rumbles, each word spiking fear and adrenaline in Arthur’s blood. “Make you fit around my cock right here, on the ground like a cheap fucking whore.”

“I will _kill you_ ,” Arthur spits, baring his teeth though Grey cannot see his face. Anger and terror pulse through his blood with each heartbeat like a drug. There are still real drugs lingering in his body, the thick, cottony feeling of having his powers suppressed. They won’t last forever. “Whatever you do to me, Mr. Grey, it doesn’t change the fact that I will fucking _tear you apart_.”

Grey’s teeth close around the shell of Arthur’s ear. It stings in a way that tells him Grey has broken skin, and Arthur bites back a curse. “You won’t do shit,” Grey tells him, cruel laughter lacing the edges of his words. “Nobody’s around to help you. No fucking guards are gonna sedate me. It’s just you and me, sweetheart.”

Disgust shudders up Arthur’s spine. “Do not call me that.”

“Why not? Hitman does.”

Hitman. _Jones_. For a strange, breathless moment Arthur finds himself wishing the man were here. Jones has already clearly expressed a certain sort of possessiveness over him, and a love for finding metahuman weaknesses. He also wants to kill Arthur, but that whim seems to change from one minute to the next. Jones is unpredictable, but that’s far better than Grey, who knows exactly what he wants and what he’s going to do.

But Arthur shakes that thought away. It wouldn’t surprise him if Jones had already found a way out of the prison, tricky bastard that he is. And he’s certainly no knight in shining armour.

So Arthur simply grits his teeth. “I’m a metahuman,” he tells Grey, biting down on a whimper when the man’s metal hands rip apart the fabric of his shirt. Scraps of fabric fall away from his chest, fluttering to the floor. Dammit. Arthur rather liked that shirt. “You know I’m telekinetic, Mr. Grey, and I have no qualms about ripping you apart on a molecular level.”

Grey snorts. His hands scrape roughly down Arthur’s chest, finally reaching his trousers. “You’re not that powerful,” he says. “I’ve seen what you got. It’s nothing to be scared of.”

Not with the drugs still in his system. But without another dose, his powers will be starting to return by tomorrow. And if Grey has already expressed an interest in Arthur’s heat, it means he may still be around by then.

It won’t be flashy. His powers won’t reach down to the molecular level. But he’ll be perfectly capable of snapping Grey’s neck within the confines of his metal exoskeleton. Perhaps he’ll tear holes in the walls of his abdomen, in his colon, and allow the man to suffer through sepsis until he dies weeping. It’s a terrible plan, one that relies on revenge rather than any sort of prevention, but it’s the only one that Arthur has.

Oh, God. It’s the only plan he has.

Before Grey can even begin to remove Arthur’s trousers, an explosion of sound bursts into the hallway. The sound of bullets against metal erupts in Arthur’s ear and he barely feels the shower of sparks and metal slivers cutting into his cheek. He does, however, feel it when the hard metal of Grey’s chest disappears from his back, and Arthur turns his head to see the man pushing to his feet. There’s a dent in his forehead where bullets have nearly worn a hole through the metal. How the hell—?

“Yo, Emerson!” Arthur’s head whips back around so fast his neck aches. At the end of the hallway, silhouetted in red light and covered in various patches of gleaming blood, stands Alfred F. Jones. Twin pistols hang from a holster tight around his waist, an assault rifle held comfortably in his hands. The grin spread across his face is made even brighter by a touch of mania, blue eyes gleaming almost preternaturally.

Arthur glances at the single dent in Grey’s forehead. No accompanying scratches. Meaning that Jones managed to continue hitting a single, tiny spot of metal even with the assault rifle. Well. It’s one thing to hear about Jones’ proficiency with weaponry, and another thing entirely to see it in action.

“Hitman,” Grey snarls, teeth bared. “Fuck off.”

“Nah, I don’t think so.” Jones takes a few careless, easy steps forward, his gait all confidence and swagger despite the size discrepancy between him and Grey’s metal-covered form. His head tips to the side, a darkness gleaming bright and wild in the stretch of his grin. “You’re trying to fuck with something that belongs to me. Didn’t I tell you that I don’t share?” He takes aim with the rifle, and though he isn’t aiming at Arthur, it isn’t difficult to feel intimidated.

Grey growls, a scent of bitter fear and frustration permeating the air. It churns into something nauseous and ugly with the preheat in Arthur’s gut. “I’m not afraid of a fucking gun.”

Jones grins. “Sure you are,” he says, nearly conversational but for the wild ferocity hidden beneath the airy tone of his voice. “Or you’re afraid of me with a gun, I guess there’s a difference. Either way, though, you know I can kill you, right? I almost did. Few more milliseconds of firing and I’d’ve gotten through all that armour.” He draws closer still, looking every bit the murderous gentleman that Arthur has always known him as, despite the standard-issue Labyrinth jumpsuit. “So back the fuck off, Emerson, or I’ll kill you right now.”

For a moment, all is silent. The smell of alpha pheromones floods the hallway, a silent battle of wills, one that Arthur can tell Jones is winning simply by tasting the air. Then, with a frustrated growl and the scrape of metal on metal, Grey turns around and storms away.

As soon as Arthur can no longer hear the thunder of his footsteps, the tension holding his spine taught and frayed melts away. “Bloody hell,” he murmurs, curling over himself, arms wrapping tight around the roiling nausea in his stomach. Jones’ scent lingers in his nose, a smell of cool, clean air and the faintest touch of diesel and the smokiness of gunpowder. It strikes Arthur that the scent is relaxing him, as much as it’s putting him on edge, and the idea is enough to make him laugh.

So what if his laughter is a little manic itself? He’s had a trying day.

He hears Jones approach, his boots nearly silent on the metal floors. Arthur doesn’t bother looking up. If Jones wants to kill him, there’s hardly anything Arthur could do to stop him in this state. Best not to worry about it.

“I still don’t belong to you,” Arthur quips drily as Jones crouches next to him. A small, delicate laugh slips past his lips, a pretty tinkling thing that makes him sound more like the cultured omega he was raised to be for the public eye. This truly is a strange circumstance. “Though I appreciate the implication of such a claim in this instance, Mr. Jones, and this instance only.”

“Maybe,” Jones replies jovially, and Arthur finally turns his face up to look at him. Jones is smiling, still a little bit wild, but the edges of his grin have softened into something that could almost be called sweet. His hair is a mess, his jumpsuit stained and in disarray. There’s a spot of blood high up on his right cheekbone, another streak of it carving down the slope of his jaw, and for a moment Arthur’s fairly sure he’s never seen a man so beautiful. “How’s it goin’, gorgeous? Did Emerson give you any trouble?”

Arthur is no longer trembling, but he’s certainly not unaffected. “He’s exactly the kind of man I’ve always learned to avoid,” is what he says, glancing over his shoulder to see the corner where Grey disappeared.

“And I’m not?” Jones is still smiling.

“I’m afraid not, Mr. Jones.” Arthur returns the smile with one of his own, just a soft and gentle little thing. “When you have your attention on someone, you’re unavoidable.”

Jones laughs, tipping his head back and exposing the column of his throat. “You’re a smart one,” he says when the laughter subsides, grinning down at Arthur as though he’s impressed. “You get me. Way better than any of the shrinks they’ve got in this place.” He stands in one smooth, sinuous motion, moving like some sort of stalking predator, before extending a hand to Arthur. “Seriously, one of them tried to go totally Freud on me, talking about my daddy issues.”

Arthur takes the offered hand, well aware of the potential implications. Jones pulls him to his feet easily, an effortless display of strength that has a warm, pleased feeling settling in Arthur’s chest. “Government types do so love to believe they know everything,” he drawls.

“You don’t like ‘em either, huh.”

Arthur doesn’t respond. His identity is his final gambit, and it wouldn’t do to give it up so soon. Jones is still a danger, no matter how nice he’s playing right now. Instead he glances down the hall where Grey disappeared, a scowl tugging on the corners of his mouth. “I’m surprised you let him go,” he says almost absently. “I seem to remember you proposing to kill him for me. As a . . . what was it? A courting gesture?” In the red light, Jones won’t be able to see the fierce flush creeping up Arthur’s cheeks, which is all the better.

“I’m not gonna kill him while he’s all armoured up,” Jones says simply. “It’d be way too quick.”

“ _Good_ ,” Arthur snarls, surprising himself with the ferocity. When he looks back to Jones, the man’s grin is frozen on his face, an indiscernible light gleaming in his eyes. “I have plans for him, and I would hate for you to cut them short.”

Jones tips his head to the side. Arthur can feel the consideration behind his gaze. Perhaps it should alarm him, but it doesn’t. “Thought you weren’t like me.”

“I’m not, Mr. Jones. Nobody is quite like you.” With a sly smile Arthur presses forward, leaning into Jones’ space, nose to chest as he brushes his hand against Jones’ hip as he grabs one of the pistols. When he steps back, the man is still just staring at him. “But the cameras are off.”

“Nobody to pretend for?”

Arthur grins. A real, dangerous grin, one he used to copy from his brothers before he softened it into something even more deadly. “You aren’t the only one who’s experienced Labyrinth’s special brand of psychiatry.”

“What’s your name, sweetheart?”

“That’s still classified, Mr. Jones.”

“Gonna make me force it out of you?” Jones steps into Arthur’s space, his gunpowder-gasoline scent flooding Arthur’s senses and mingling with the buzzing warmth of his preheat. Jones’ nostrils flare, his smile growing even brighter. “God, you smell good. Bet you’d smell even better with a little fear.” Madness burns bright in his eyes. “No restraints anymore, sweetheart. Nothing between you and me but that gun in your hand, and I’m a lot faster with a gun than you are.” He steps closer and Arthur steps back, his back hitting the wall, hard cement digging into the base of his spine as his back arches involuntarily. “I’ve still got plans for making you scream someday, beautiful.”

There are many reasons a person might scream. With a man like Jones, it’s impossible to know which he means. And here, with his back pressed to a wall and Jones pressed to his front, Arthur cannot find a reason to care.

Lovely. Preheat really is doing a number on his cognition. At least Jones seems more inclined towards less violent delights at the moment.

None of it shows on his face, Arthur is better schooled than that, but Jones smiles nonetheless. Instead of responding Arthur nudges at his hip and his shoulder. He’s almost surprised by how easily Jones moves, stepping aside to let Arthur push away from the wall and into the centre of the hallway.

“I don’t suppose you know a way out of here,” he murmurs, not expecting much of an answer. If even employees know only one way out through the Labyrinth underground, no inmates would have even the slightest idea. It may be prudent to find one of the metahuman supervillains with cognitive enhancements, or perhaps even superstrength. The idea of relying on dangerous criminals to escape is not a preferable one, but desperate times and all that.

Perhaps if he had his brothers, they would be able to figure something out together. But the rest of the Kirklands were not deemed dangerous enough for Labyrinth. Very few inmates aren’t metahumans, and even at their deadliest his brothers have never quite matched up to Jones.

“Sure I do,” Jones says, snapping Arthur out of his reverie.

“ _What_?” He spins, eyebrows already high in disbelief. “How? Why the hell would _you_ know a way out?”

Jones grins, wide and cocky. And damn him, it looks good on him. “My brother’s real good at information.”

“I didn’t know you had a brother.”

With a winking smile, Jones presses a single finger to his lips. “It’s a secret,” he says in a mock-whisper, as though the gleam in his eye is anything less than threatening. Ah. Of course. Anyone who knows about this mysterious brother has been killed. So this is either a very bad sign, that Jones has deigned to tell Arthur about him . . . or a very good one. Then again, having a psychotic murderer trust him with such a secret is probably as dangerous as being considered disposable by the man.

Arthur nods. He checks the pistol’s magazine; it’s another Glock, of course, because Americans seem to love them. Nobody seems to have an appreciation for the classics over on this side of the pond. Unfortunate, but hardly the worst thing that’s happened today.

“So, how exactly are we meant to leave?” Arthur glances up from the gun, tapping an agitated rhythm against the barrel with the pad of his finger. “What sort of information has this mysterious brother passed on that will aide in our escape?”

Jones smiles wide, fervent like a child. “So it’s ‘we’ now? You know who I am, right? Don’t tell me you’ve suddenly gotten dumb, sweetheart, I’d really hate that.” Jones slings the strap of the rifle over his shoulder and thumbs at his one remaining handgun, baring his teeth in a grin that promises a certain sort of violence. Arthur doesn’t shiver, but it’s a near thing. “You’re a lot more interesting when you’re being clever, beautiful.”

“Believe me, Mr. Jones, I haven’t forgotten what you are.” It isn’t quite a grin that tugs at Arthur’s mouth, but Jones seems to like the look of it nonetheless. “But of all the dangerous alphas in this prison, I would most like to take my chances with you.”

“Well don’t you worry, sweetheart,” Jones drawls, his voice slipping into a touch of southern, soothing the tense anxiety still lingering in Arthur’s chest. For a brief moment, Arthur finds himself wondering what the truth of it is. What Jones sounded like before he learned to be the nation’s most dangerous con artist. “Nobody’s gonna touch you. Not while I’m around.” He grins, and the accent on his next words is different, much harsher, almost electrifying. “Anyone tries anything, I’ll fucking kill them.”

Though Arthur would never admit it, the words give him comfort. The fear from earlier has been quickly and efficiently compartmentalized, stored away somewhere in his brain, a distant nudging to be dealt with much later. A necessity, in his business. But the tension is still there, buzzing just beneath his skin, itching where his finger rests against the trigger of his gun.

For as long as Arthur has been an omega, there have been alphas pushing at his boundaries. It’s a fear he’s never quite been able to get over no matter how hard his mother trained him to use it to his advantage. He’s very good at playing the innocent omega, of course—he wouldn’t be walking free if he wasn’t—but it’s an ancient fear.

Though apparently he’s doing less to hide it than he thinks. Because Jones approaches, his face settled into something carved from marble, beautiful and terrible all at once. “Your fear doesn’t smell good right now,” he says, the hint of a growl slipping into his words. “I don’t want anyone else freaking you out like this. That’s not their goddamn right.” Jones stops close enough to touch. He leans in, and breathes in deep, and when his eyes lock with Arthur’s there’s a sincerity there that nearly knocks him off his feet. “Are you okay, beautiful? Like, really okay?”

Arthur waves it off with a huff of laughter. “This is far from my closest call, Mr. Jones,” he says flippantly, looking down the hallway once more. “Now, you mentioned a way out, and this light is giving me a headache.”

Jones watches him a second longer. Then he nods, and begins walking, heading towards the nearest cell block. “There’s an access to the tunnels just up ahead,” he says, looking back until Arthur catches up and walks at his side. “Then it’s a walk through the Labyrinth.”

“I hope you know where you’re going,” Arthur mutters. “I’ve no interest in starving to death in some godforsaken basement.”

“Nah,” Jones says with a grin. When Arthur narrows his eyes the man only smiles wider. “I mean, you’d be able to find a way out before then anyway, right? I’m guessing whatever meds you’re taking, they’d wear off in time for you to just blow a hole in the ceiling and lift us right up.”

Arthur blinks at him.

“C’mon, you think I didn’t have it figured out?” Jones tips his head back in a laugh, free and careless with it. Classic American. When his eyes land on Arthur’s again there’s something keen hiding within, a hint of Jones’ intelligence. “You’re a weak telekinetic, but you don’t act like a weak metahuman. They’ve all got inferiority complexes.” Jones shakes his head. “Not you, gorgeous. You’re _proud_.” The grin that carves across his chiselled features—cruel and beautiful and gleaming with the desperate sort of danger that makes Arthur’s toes curl—suggests that Jones would love nothing more than to break that pride.

“Interesting deduction, Mr. Jones.”

“Plus, y’know, I figured that anyone who can send out a cry for help that strong while on suppressive meds has gotta be pretty powerful.”

The words register somewhere deep in Arthur’s brain, deep beneath his conscious mind. He narrows his eyes at Jones, fingers tightening fractionally around the gun in his hand. “What are you talking about?”

Jones smiles, tapping his own handgun against the side of his head as though it couldn’t kill him right then and there. If Arthur were of a mind to do it, he could. It would be easy to pull the trigger telekinetically, his powers are still strong enough for that. But he doesn’t, and Jones’ hand falls back to his side. “I heard your voice in my head,” Jones says, almost melodic in the way he croons it. “Just my name. But God, sweetheart, the way you were begging for me to come save you . . .” Cruel delight lights up his eyes. “Pretend all you want that you don’t belong to me. I already left one claim on you, and apparently that lasted a lot longer than the mark.”

Rolling his eyes, Arthur dismisses Jones with a snort and ignores the flush rising in his cheeks. “Don’t flatter yourself, Mr. Jones,” he says. “You’re one of the few people in this prison with both the means and the cause to drive Grey off, and the only one who wouldn’t simply pick up where he left off.” Arthur hasn’t made himself a friend to any of the overtly powerful metahumans. Alphas that powerful do so hate being made powerless, and to be treated by someone they consider so inferior certainly doesn’t help.

Jones says nothing, only smiles as though he knows something Arthur doesn’t. Arthur does not look at him again.

They walk in silence until Jones finds the entrance to the tunnels. It’s a simple maintenance door, unassuming where it’s set into the cement wall, the hinges rusted and the metal plating dented. But when Jones procures a key and unlocks the door, it opens up onto a dimly let metal stairwell rather than a mop and some breakers.

“After you,” Jones says with a grin.

Arthur narrows his eyes. “I’d rather not have you at my back, Mr. Jones.”

“Betcha you’ll be changing your tune eventually.”

However, Jones doesn’t seem to mind going first. Arthur follows him down, letting the door swing closed behind him. The staircase is really only wide enough for single file so he keeps close to Jones’ back as they descend. Though his powers are dimmed Arthur can still feel the weight of the earth around them as they get deeper and deeper. It ratchets up his anxiety, as though the suffocating weight around them is pressing against his ribcage and crushing his lungs.

When the staircase finally comes to an end, they must be at least five stories underground. Arthur peers around Jones’ shoulder but all he sees is an endless hallway with at least a dozen branching paths, all the same solid grey of cement and lit by widely spaced incandescent lightbulbs. It’s the setting of some terrible trashy horror movie, though in this case the danger is very real, particularly if any other inmates have found themselves an entrance to the maze.

“You swear you know where you’re going?” he asks, glaring at the hallway as though a pathway will open up if he can intimidate it enough. “I have no interest in dying here, Mr. Jones.”

“I like how you call me Mr. Jones,” is all Jones says, the twist of his grin evident in his voice. Then he begins walking, shoulders back and head held high, with all the confidence in the world. “Now c’mon, beautiful, it’s a long walk to freedom.”

* * *

Time does not seem to pass like normal as they traverse Labyrinth’s underground maze. Without a watch or view of the sky Arthur has no means of keeping track other than counting and guessing, and after enough time seeing nothing but identical grey walls and floors and hearing the slight buzz of flickering lights his perception of time has begun to melt. His legs are aching from the constant pace, his feet sore from the slight heel of his boots. A strange, small feeling has burrowed into his chest, an anxious urge to curl up under something warm and soft and remain there until the scent of being underground has been swept away. It’s a ridiculous urge, one he pays no mind to as Jones leads them through the maze.

For all his inane chatter when Jones was his patient, the man is all but silent now. He does speak, occasionally, small meaningless flirtations laced with threats, but nothing more. They move mostly silently through the labyrinth, Arthur listening for any approaching threats, testing the boundaries of his powers as evening approaches and last night’s dose begins to wear off.

As time passes, however, Arthur notices Jones throwing more glances in his direction. Slow looks, shadowed eyes dragging across his face and down the slope of his neck, face frozen in the mask of a smile. Every one nearly makes Arthur shiver. Not quite, but something about the piercing brightness of his blue eyes digs under Arthur’s skin and sits there.

It isn’t until a sudden cramping in his gut that Arthur realizes the reason for the looks.

His heat is coming on.

“Absolutely not,” he snarls, pressing the heel of his hand against the overwarm twisting low in the base of his stomach. A shiver of sensation sparks up over his skin like a current, trailing up his spine and up over his neck.

Jones has stopped walking. “Everything alright there, sweetheart?” There’s a mocking grin in his voice, a spark in his eyes that promises something dangerous for entirely the right reasons. Of course he already knows what’s going on. He has a bloody functioning nose, after all.

Arthur lifts his glare to Jones’ face, hands shaking minutely where they’re wrapped around his gun. “I’m going into heat,” he hisses. “But you already knew that, you fucking wanker.”

A smile tugs wide on Jones’ face. “Sure did.”

His smugness is as infuriating as it is enticing, the perfect blend of confidence and arrogance that so many alphas aim for and miss the mark. Arthur takes a deep, slow breath, ignoring the heady scent of gunsmoke and dry desert air. The heat hasn’t arrived yet, not fully, and his mind is still entirely his own.

“Mr. Jones,” he says carefully, looking the man dead in the eye. “If you get me out of these tunnels and into a proper bloody bed before my heat sets in fully, you can have me for the entire duration.” Jones’ expression doesn’t change, but his eyes flash with something bright and dangerous. Arthur ignores the pooling of arousal in his belly at the sight. “If, however, we’re still in this hellscape of a basement when it hits, I will _never_ let you touch me.” He stands up fuller, pressing out against the boundaries of his powers; above them, the incandescent light flickers, and Arthur bares his teeth in a snarl. “Is that clear?”

The hard line in Jones’ eyes snaps. He smiles, sharp canines bared like a predator. “Crystal.”

“Good.” Arthur narrows his eyes. “Get moving, Mr. Jones.”

Jones laughs. “Someone’s eager,” he says, eyes half-wild, but he starts walking again nonetheless. He tosses Arthur a look over his shoulder in the moment before Arthur catches up, grin alight with predatory possession. “Don’t worry, gorgeous, I’ll take good care of you.”

Arthur huffs, narrowing his eyes at the heat in Jones’ gaze. “You’ll do nothing if you don’t speed up.”

“You really think you can stop me?” It’s almost an innocent question, Jones’ head cocking to the side like a confused puppy or a curious child. Despite the boyish charm of the gesture his tone is an obvious threat, the promise of violence laced into every angle and line of his face. It does make Arthur shiver—though not entirely out of fear. “You think that if I wanted to, I couldn’t hold you down and just do whatever I please? You’re clever, sweetheart, but you’re so _tiny_. I could break your wrists with one hand, hold you down with the other while I had my way with you.” Cruelty shines from the blue of his eyes. “I’m still set on making you scream, one way or another.”

“True as that may be, Mr. Jones,” Arthur snaps, “you are not a rapist.”

“Who says?”

“You do.” Arthur purses his lips together in a frown, staring up at the wild energy in Jones’ eyes. “Were you not the one who said you would prevent anyone from touching me? I’m going into heat and you haven’t so much as touched me.” He holds the stare. “There are many reasons for me to fear you, Mr. Jones. That is not one of them.”

For a moment, Jones simply holds his gaze. Then the man smiles, a certain sort of sincerity gleaming in his half-manic smile. “I still kinda wanna kill you,” he says, as casually as if they were discussing the weather. “Make it real slow so I can watch you cry. You strike me as the kind of guy who’s pretty when he cries.” Jones stares at him, unblinking, and arousal and fear war with one another in Arthur’s gut like some primeval instinct. “And I still think you’d look good in red. It’d be a nice contrast with those pretty green eyes.”

A small, clever smile slips onto Arthur’s face. “If you’re going to kill me, Mr. Jones, I suggest you wait until I have full access to my powers.” His grin is coy as he looks up at Jones through his lashes, made sweeter by the heat pheromones clinging to his body. “Then it would truly be a challenge.”

An unknowable emotion flashes through Jones’ eyes. “Wait, just how powerful are you?”

“Wait and see, Mr. Jones. Wait and see.”

* * *

When Arthur smells fresh air, he nearly cries from relief. Though that may just be the heat hormones making him emotional. Warmth has grown steadily throughout his body, making his skin prickle with oversensitivity and his gut cramp uncomfortably every time he so much as breathes in Jones’ scent. It’s bloody annoying, and despite Jones’ confident march through the tunnels everything around them has blurred together into a single grey corridor.

Then Arthur feels a draft on his face. “Oh, thank Christ,” he breathes, gulping down the first hints of non-stale air in hours. “I was beginning to think I’d be living the rest of my life trapped in these tunnels.”

“I told you I had a way out,” Jones says with a grin. “Oh, hey, before we get outside and you freeze to death.” Whatever Arthur was expecting, it’s not for Jones to slip the assault rifle strap off his shoulder and tug his blood-stained white t-shirt over his shoulders in one smooth, sinuous movement. His muscles shift and flex beneath scarred, sunkissed skin and Arthur swallows, unable to stop staring even as Jones locks eyes with him and holds the t-shirt out like an offering. “Put this on. Emerson really did a number on your shirt.”

Right. For the past few hours, Arthur has been walking around shirtless. It’s really only been the warmth of preheat keeping him from feeling the chill likely lingering in the tunnels. Silently, he accepts the shirt, slipping it on over his head and refusing the instinct to breathe Jones’ scent in deep. He’s no mindless omega yet, no matter how sharp and alluring Jones smells.

He cannot, however, ignore the little thrill up his spine when he spots Jones eyeing him. “You look good in my clothes,” Jones says suddenly, a grin tugging at his mouth and revealing sharp white teeth. “Look like you’re mine.”

“I still don’t belong to you,” Arthur snaps. “I’m only wearing this because my own was destroyed, nothing more. And unless you want me to go into heat in this bloody fucking tunnel, I suggest you keep moving.”

Jones says nothing, only turning and continuing to walk. Arthur clutches his Glock tighter and follows.

When they finally reach the exit to the Labyrinth, it turns out to be what looks like the grate over an abandoned drainage tunnel. Moonlight shines through the crossed metal bars, casting silvery shadows on the cement floor, so bright that Arthur’s eyes ache simply from looking at the reflection of light. But he keeps his eyes open, peering beyond the grate to see a dried-up creek surrounded by tall, dark trees. It’s beautiful, almost idyllic. Certainly not what anyone would expect for the secret exit to Labyrinth Penitentiary.

In the distance, Arthur can hear the hum of engines, the ground rumbling with the force of cars driving over a nearby street. Thank God. The sooner he gets himself into a proper bed, well—

His blush will certainly be more noticeable in this light. Luckily Jones isn’t looking.

Instead, Jones is inspecting the grate. There appears to be hinges, but even from several metres away Arthur can see that they look rusted shut. Dammit. Nothing can ever be quite that simple, can it? With a huff of annoyance and a roll of his eyes Arthur stalks forward, slipping up against Jones’ side. Jones looks at him, but Arthur is already focusing every ounce of his slowly-returning powers on the rusted hinges.

A moment later, the grate swings wide open.

“Woah, nice one.”

“Get me back into bloody civilization, Mr. Jones.”

Jones seems content to follow orders when they align with his own goals, at least, and he leads Arthur up the side of an embankment towards a rather busy street somewhere in the nearest city to Labyrinth Penitentiary. It isn’t an area of town Arthur recognizes too well, but there are actual buildings and other people and lights that aren’t something out of a cheap American horror movie, so he finds the sight welcoming all the same.

“There should be a car waiting for me,” Jones says, heading for a nearby alleyway littered with broken glass and damp scraps of cardboard. Arthur follows dutifully behind, holding his gun close to his body, one arm curled tightly around the cramping pain in his abdomen. “Then we can get you to a nice bed, sweetheart, and we can have our fun.” He flashes Arthur a grin over his shoulder, blue eyes bright and electric in the silver moonlight.

As promised, there is indeed a car waiting in the shadows of the alley, miraculously not vandalized or stolen despite the roughness of this area of town. Apparently Jones’ accomplice—presumably his mysterious brother—isn’t a novice at this. It’s a beautiful car, though Arthur’s never exactly been the type to pay attention to such things; it’s sleek and low to the ground, a blue so dark it’s nearly black in the moonlight. Clearly a sports car. It figures. Jones does seem the type to like fast cars. It’s so stereotypically alpha, and Arthur has never met an alpha seeking adrenaline and that slick sort of violence quite as much as Jones.

Inside the car is a change of clothes; a pressed white shirt, slim-fitting black dress trousers, and a velvet black tie. Jones strips out of his jumpsuit quickly and efficiently, wrapping it into a ball and tucking it into the trunk of the car. Arthur watches him dress despite himself. Jones has the art of tying a tie down to an art, and Arthur has always been a sucker for a well-dressed gentleman.

There’s also a suit jacket, that Jones tosses to Arthur after a quick moment of deliberation. “You’ve got a bit of blood on your shirt there, sweetheart,” he says, a cheerful lilt to the southern affection of his voice. “Might wanna cover that up.”

He seems entirely too pleased as Arthur pulls on the jacket. It’s far too big on him, drowning him at the shoulders, sleeves dangling down to the tips of his narrow fingers. It’ll cover up the blood, however, and that’s what’s important right now. Arthur tries to ignore the weight of Jones’ stare on his waist as he folds his arms around the dull pain in his stomach. The man can make one feel like cornered prey with but a look.

Within the car is also a wallet filled with an almost absurd amount of cash. “Score,” Jones says with a wicked grin, swinging into the driver’s seat with practiced ease. “Hell, we could get the penthouse suite at a Hilton with this.”

Arthur slips into the passenger seat. “A decently expensive room with a view will do,” he says, tucking his fingers into the sleeves of the jacket.

“I’ve got just the thing,” Jones drawls, and then they’re pulling out of the alleyway.

The ride is smooth and silent. Arthur sits quietly, itching to curl his legs up against his body and hunch down against his knees until he’s as small as possible. Lights flash across his face as they approach the centre of downtown, streets and buildings becoming more familiar as they go. Despite the desperate tug at the base of his spine he doesn’t turn to look at Jones, instead staring out the window with his head resting against the cool glass. It doesn’t help against his steadily rising temperature, but it does feel somewhat nice.

It hits rather suddenly, all things considered. One moment Arthur is just staring out the window at the taillights of the cars they pass; the next, a sudden spike of arousal surges up inside him so abruptly he’s gasping on it. He leans forward, pressed against the seatbelt, breathing hard.

“You alright?” Jones’ voice is smooth as honey and sparks something inside Arthur, stoking the embers of heat inside him until suddenly it’s a wildfire.

Arthur moans. “I . . .” His tongue catches in his throat, suddenly too big for his mouth. Every inch of him is burning up in the heat, tingling with something caught between pleasure and pain. “Jones . . .” He’s _aching_ for a touch, to be pressed up against something warm. To be filled. Oh, God.

“Oh, I get it.” The smile is evident in Jones’ voice, arrogance lacing every word, and Arthur forces himself to swallow down a keen. “You need me to take care of you, isn’t that right? Well don’t worry, sweetheart, we’re almost there.” The soothing, almost condescending tone of his voice rushes over Arthur like gasoline, pouring over the flame and coaxing it even brighter. And his smell . . . suddenly it’s everywhere, bright and violent, smoke and fire and diesel.

“Hurry up,” Arthur hisses, eyes squeezing shut. “Fuck, Jones—” His own moan throttles his voice, pitched high and reedy in the silence of the car.

“Just relax,” Jones croons.

Arthur drifts in and out of awareness. There’s only heat, and pleasure so tight it must be pain, and the overwhelming scent of an alpha wrapping around him like woodsmoke. He curls his fingers against his legs, clawing at his thighs through his trousers as though it will relieve the desperate heat itching just beneath his skin.

He only barely registers Jones helping him out of the car. He twists his fingers in the fabric of Jones’ crisp white dress shirt as they walk into what Arthur is fairly sure is a hotel lobby. Jones makes easy, quick conversation with the young woman behind the counter as he books a room, charming and delightful as though he doesn’t have a handgun hidden at his ankle. Arthur hears mention of himself, a sheepish laugh from Jones as the man offers flustered explanations, the woman brushing it off with a bright smile.

Then they’re crowding into an elevator, Arthur stumbling over his feet. The doors slide shut behind them—and suddenly Arthur finds himself with his back pressed up against a wall, Jones trapping him against it with a hand on his waist and another braced against the wall next to his head. Jones leans in, mouthing at Arthur’s neck. A full-body shiver makes Arthur tremble and he moans, head tipping to give Jones more access.

“You smell so fucking good,” Jones growls, teeth grazing against Arthur’s jaw, tongue trailing lines of fire in its wake. “I wanna fuck you right here, gorgeous.”

Arthur keens, legs quaking under the force of Jones’ touch. “D-don’t you dare,” he manages.

“Nah, course not.” Jones sucks a bruise into the spot just below Arthur’s jaw, sparking electricity down the entire length of his spine. He laughs into Arthur’s skin, his hand trailing up under Arthur’s shirt and pressing into the divots of his ribcage. “Pretty sure you specifically said you wanted me to fuck you in a bed.”

A soft ding rings through the elevator. The moment the door is open Jones has an arm wrapped around Arthur’s shoulders, ushering him out into the hall. Dimly, Arthur registers that it’s a rather nice place, midnight blue carpet lit by golden wall sconces and artwork hung up on the walls. But when Jones tugs him closer, soaking him with body heat, he cannot keep his mind from slipping into a fog as a hushed moan falls from his lips.

“Almost there, beautiful,” Jones murmurs.

The nearly fall into the hotel room. As soon as the door closes behind them Arthur finds himself shoved up against it, hard enough to ache in his shoulders and spine, head tipping back on a breathless gasp. Jones tucks his face into Arthur’s neck and bites; quick, painful little sparks of electricity and arousal that are sure to leave marks.

“I can’t wait to make you scream,” Jones snarls against his skin, nearly unhinged. “God, gorgeous, I’m gonna fucking _destroy_ you.”

The urge swells up in his chest, and before he can swallow it back down it slips out. “Arthur.”

Jones stills. He pulls back, pinning Arthur against the door with the force of his gaze, blue eyes gleaming in the darkness of the hotel room. “What’s that, sweetheart?” His expression is indiscernible, his eyes wild with a ferocity that has heat curling around the base of Arthur’s spine. It aches simply to look at him, like staring too long at a bright summer sky.

There’s no use in pulling back now. Arthur forces himself through a few shuddering breaths. “My name is Arthur,” he tells Jones. “Arthur Kirkland.”

If Jones recognizes the name, he doesn’t let it show. A smile spreads across his face, wild and manic. “Arthur,” he says, as though he’s testing out the shape of the name in his mouth. His voice is slow and simmering and Arthur shudders at the sound of his name in that velvet drawl. “Nice to meet you, Arthur.”

“The pleasure’s all mine,” Arthur says. He locks eyes with Jones, ignoring the flicker of painful heat. “Alfred.”

Jones—Alfred—smiles. A proper, terrifying smile, baring his sharp canines and lighting up the blue in his eyes. He looks downright beautiful, a deadly predator with his attention fixed on his next target, all long legs and broad shoulders and a presence most alphas could only dream of. Arthur shivers, slumping back against the door, breathing slowly and deeply as Alfred’s eyes trace a path up the entire length of his body. Never before has he felt quite so much like a cornered rabbit, heart thudding in his chest. And perhaps it’s the heat warping his perception, but he finds that he rather likes it.

In a flash of movement Alfred scoops him up, barely giving Arthur a moment to get his bearings before he’s landing hard on the bed, bouncing once before settling, sprawled gracelessly over the bedspread. He twists until he’s on his back, supporting himself with his elbows. Above him stands Alfred, broad shoulders emphasized by the cut of his shirt, wild grin softened into something more subtle, more dangerous. Every omega instinct Arthur has ever ignored rears up and he tips his head to one side, baring his neck as his legs fall open. The way Alfred’s eyes track his every movement makes him shiver.

Slowly, Alfred’s hands move to his tie. “Ever done this before, Arthur?”

Arthur shakes his head. “You were—” He bites out a moan when Alfred’s nimble fingers begin undoing his tie. Dammit, he’s always had a weakness for gentlemen. “You were correct, when you . . . assumed.”

He isn’t expecting Alfred to remember, but the man grins. “So you’ve never let anyone fuck you, huh?” With one hand he tugs the tie from around his neck, dropping it at his feet without ever looking away from Arthur’s face. “Good. I hate coming second place.”

His hands move to the buttons of his shirt next, undoing each one unbearably slow, head tipped to the side as he watches Arthur squirm. He’s absolutely teasing and frankly, Arthur does _not_ have the patience for it. So he reaches out with a tug of his power and the shirt rips at the seams, falling off of Alfred’s body in pieces.

For a moment, Alfred looks properly stunned. Then his grin becomes even wilder and in a flash of movement he has one knee on the bed, leaning forward with his shoulder muscles rolling like a jungle cat. “Sorry, sweetheart, didn’t mean to go too slow,” he purrs, prowling forward, forcing Arthur onto his back with a single hand splayed wide on his sternum. Heat flares in Arthur’s chest as Alfred looms over him, hovering on one arm with his teeth bared like a predatory animal. “Shoulda known you’d be in a rush. How’s that heat feeling, huh?”

Arthur squirms, chin tipping up to expose his neck even as frustration rises at the back of his throat. “You— _mhnnnnn_ —you know very well how I’m _feeling_.” His own fingers fumble with the button of his trousers, shoulders twisting and rolling as he wrestles himself out of the suit jacket. Beneath the clothing he’s burning up, heat flaring up the length of his spine, and Alfred being so close is only making it worse.

“Lemme give you a hand with that.” Alfred helps him out of the jacket and then the bloodstained shirt, tossing both across the room. His fingertips trail up Arthur’s chest, fitting into the holes of his ribcage, nails scoring burning red marks when he drags his hands back down towards Arthur’s trousers. With a sly grin and a wild gleam in his eye Alfred undoes the button and slips Arthur’s trousers down along with his pants, lifting Arthur’s legs and bending him nearly in half to tug them all the way off.

Alfred settles Arthur’s legs on either side of his hips. And then, for a moment, all he does is stare. There’s hunger in his eyes, a wolf staring down his prey. Arthur shivers under the weight of it.

“Goddamn,” Alfred croons, dipping into a low southern accent as he presses insistent fingers at the insides of Arthur’s thighs. “You’re a pretty sight like this, beautiful.” His eyes flicker down between Arthur’s legs, where he can feel himself growing wet simply from Alfred’s presence.

It’s unlike any slickness Arthur has ever felt before. He’s been wet, of course, because he’s a bloody omega and this is a bloody heat—but it’s never felt quite this _urgent_. As though he’s desperate for something, a tendril of need curling around his spine and winding through his ribcage. He feels empty, properly empty, laying there with his legs spread wide as he waits to be filled. Words rise to his lips that he swallows back down; frustrated demands and half-choked pleas that he will _never_ let Alfred hear.

“Get on with it, then,” he snaps instead, ignoring how his voice wavers on a moan.

Alfred looks downright psychotic when he smiles. It’s a look he wears well, emphasizing the sharp line of his jaw and the electric blue of his eyes, and Arthur pants at the sight of it. “Sure thing,” Alfred says. “Just lay back and think of England.”

“Fuck yo— _ooooh_.” Arthur’s curse is cut off by the sudden, violent thrust of two of Alfred’s fingers inside him.

Alfred grins. “What was that, sweetheart?” He crooks his fingers and Arthur keens, thighs twitching around Alfred’s hips. “Didn’t quite catch that.” He drags his fingers out, rough enough to make Arthur tremble, before he presses them back in.

Somewhere along the way, Arthur has started to tremble. A full, violent thing, shaking in every muscle of his body. It doesn’t quite hurt though it makes it difficult to breathe, every breath slow and shaky. Pleasure scratches under his skin, meeting the pain of heat halfway and twisting together into something electric.

Apparently Alfred has quickly grown tired of his own teasing. He tugs his fingers out, leaving Arthur empty and cold. But then there’s the soft sound of a zipper, a rustling of fabric, and then something blood-hot and heavy presses against Arthur’s entrance.

Arthur freezes. Every nerve is screaming with sensation, electricity lighting up his entire body. Everything _aches_ , pulled too far or pressed too hard, overwarm or overcool, and Arthur cannot figure out how to breathe.

Then Alfred _moves_ , the head of his cock shoving into Arthur’s ass.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Arthur murmurs, staring unseeing at the shadowed ceiling. “Oh, fuck. Fuck.”

A low, rumbling laugh vibrates through Arthur’s entire body. “You’ve got a mouth on you, Arthur,” Alfred says, amusement and arousal clear in the timbre of his voice. His hips slip forward and Arthur keens. “What happened to your composure, huh? Is it this easy to make you lose control?” Another laugh, as Alfred leans over him, a sudden shadow as he braces his arms near Arthur’s head. White teeth glint with a vicious grin. “I bet if I slit your throat right now you’d make the _sweetest_ noises.”

 _Oh_. A sound escapes Arthur as though it’s been punched out of him, halfway caught between a moan and a whine. Fear and arousal send violent, painful shivers through his entire body. Fuck, it’s overwhelming—too much, too intense, and at the same time not enough. He needs more.

“Oh, wow, that’s something.” Alfred buries his face against Arthur’s neck as his hips work forward. Hot breath and sharp teeth graze over Arthur’s skin and he whines high in his throat, head tipping to the side, eyes fluttering shut as a wave of pleasure crests over his head. “You like being threatened, huh, sweetheart? Like being scared?”

“Shut up.”

“Tell me I’m wrong.”

“I don’t— _haah_ —” Alfred bites his neck at the exact moment his hips buck forward. A flood of sensation overloads his brain and suddenly there’s nothing but sparks and black as his eyes blur over. “Wait, wait—it’s too much, too m-much—”

“I don’t think so.” Another thrust, a bite to the angle of his jaw. Arthur moans brokenly, breathing hard and fast enough that his chest aches. “You said I could fuck you through your heat.” Alfred smooths one broad, gun-callused hand up Arthur’s chest, dragging roughly over his sternum before his long, nimble fingers curl just barely around his throat. “And that means doing things my way, sweetheart.”

“Oh God, oh God—”

“Call me Alfred.”

Arthur’s eyes press closed on a whine. “Shut _up_ ,” he snarls, clawing at Alfred’s back. His nails dig in deep and he feels blood beading beneath his fingers, the skin torn open. “I can’t—I can’t—”

Alfred’s hips press flush with his, and Arthur’s complaints fizzle out. Oh. _Oh_. Suddenly, the feeling of fullness is _everything_. He gasps on every breath, as though air won’t quite fit in his lungs. All he can focus on is the stretch of Alfred’s cock, the electrifying burn of it inside him. Submission and surrender wash over him like a drug and Arthur goes pliant, eyes open and gazing blindly at the ceiling, fingers splayed across Alfred’s back.

Torturously slowly, Alfred’s hips draw back. Arthur whines, pawing fruitlessly at his back, immediately feeling the emptiness that Alfred’s cock has carved inside him. He’ll never quite fit right again, certainly not with anyone else. Not after Alfred. Then Alfred thrusts back in, long and slow and deep.

The pace he sets is not quick and brutal, as Arthur might have expected. It is, however, no less violent; every thrust is endless, so deep that Arthur can feel it in his throat, as though Alfred is carving a permanent mark inside him.

Pleasure builds inside him like a rolling wave. Lapping at the sides of his lungs as he struggles to breathe, drowning every breath he tries to take. Every thrust of Alfred’s cock is like a burst of lightning, scattering pleasure and pain over Arthur’s skin. He’s breathless with it, desperate for it, trembling from the intensity of what he _feels_. Heat prickles in the pit of his stomach, a bright burn that aches every time Alfred’s hips pull back.

Then Alfred’s hips stutter and still, cock pressed fully inside, and—and something is swelling. His knot, growing wide and locking them together, stealing Arthur’s breath away.

Before Arthur can even gasp he’s coming. The heat flares to a supernova, so bright it must be burning him to ash—and then all at once it’s dimming into a slow, simmering burn. Arthur drags in a breath as wet warmth spills inside him, fanning the flames of his heat, settling into a pleasant, honeyed weight at the base of his spine.

And then, as he drifts along the high, teeth latch around the tendon between his neck and shoulder and bite. _Hard_. For a moment there’s pain, a sting so vicious Arthur cries out, nails digging into Alfred’s skin. Then a rush of endorphins, clouding everything into a soft, golden haze. Warmth burrows into his chest and spreads from every point of contact between Alfred’s skin and his own. Simple contentment tingles at the nape of his neck, all the way down to the tips of his fingers. It feels . . . right. As though this is exactly where he’s meant to be.

Alfred lifts his head, then, lips stained with the barest traces of blood as he smiles. This smile is softer than any Arthur has seen so far. Still manic, still wild, but softened by warmth and the hazy glow of the bite.

It’s then, of course, that Alfred ducks his head down and kisses him. A soft, slow movement of lips against his own. He tastes of iron and bitter chocolate and traces of gunsmoke. Arthur moans into his mouth, shifting his hips just to feel the tug of Alfred’s knot, fingers tracing idle patterns along the raised welts down Alfred’s back.

When Alfred pulls away from the kiss, he’s still smiling. “Just realized I hadn’t done that yet,” he says.

“Mm.” For a moment, Arthur simply lays there, content to stare up into Alfred’s grin. And then he rears his head up, catching Alfred just under his chin—following it up with a swift elbow across the nose, before Alfred gets a hand around his fragile wrist and pins it next to his head. They both stare at one another, breathing hard, and the tail end of a growl rumbles in Alfred's chest.

“Not that I don’t appreciate the enthusiasm, _sweetheart_ ,” Alfred snarls through a smile, blue eyes glinting with promises of danger and violence. His fingers tighten around Arthur’s wrist and suddenly Arthur remembers the threat of breaking his wrist with one hand, realizing perhaps belatedly that Alfred could truly do it. Easily. Fear pulses in time with his heartbeat, a match for the arousal low in his belly. “But you really don’t wanna piss me off while you’re trapped against me.”

“You fucking mated me, Jones.” Arthur’s glare is thunderous. “I did not agree to that.”

A smile slips over Alfred’s face, doing very little to conceal the wild fury in his eyes. “That’s why I didn’t _ask_.”

“Christ.” Arthur lets his head fall back against the mattress, ignoring the sudden flash of a migraine. It’ll disappear soon enough when his heat flares back up again. “Is it really so difficult to warn someone when you’re about to permanently tie them to you?” The anger melts out of his voice, fabricated as it was. Truthfully, he cannot find it within himself to mind. The warmth of the bond is still fresh and new, thrumming in his blood.

Alfred laughs. “If you wanted easy, you would’ve shot me the second you had the chance. But no, instead you practically demanded I fuck you through your heat.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.” His eyes have begun drifting shut, exhaustion settling into his body. It’s been quite a trying day. And the pulse of Alfred’s knot is almost soothing, in a way. “You were the only alpha available to me. I didn’t exactly have any other means of getting through it.”

“You smell happy.”

“I’m most certainly not.”

“My nose doesn’t lie, beautiful.” Alfred presses an open-mouthed kiss to his neck. “You definitely smell like happy, sated omega right now.” Sharp teeth nip at Arthur’s jaw and he hums out a moan. “And you smell like me.”

“And whose fault is that, exactly?”

“This testy even when you’ve got a knot in your ass.” Alfred snickers into Arthur’s skin. “We’ll have to work on that. Bet there are ways I could keep you nice and pliant.” Broad, clever hands sweep up Arthur’s sides, slotting against his ribcage, pressing just hard enough that his chest aches. “I guess we’ve got time for me to figure that out, huh?”

“Mmm.” Quiet descends upon them. Only the sounds of their breathing, the subtle slip of fabric every time either of them shifts their hips. It’s a perfect, idyllic calm. A calm, Arthur realizes, that he is very swiftly becoming annoyed with.

For the past two years, his life has been nothing but a forced calm. As though he’s been seeing everything through a haze of drugs. And now—trapped beneath a violent, psychotic mercenary, twitching with lingering heat and the slow, aching return of his powers—Arthur finds that he’s rather missed this particular brand of adrenaline. Nothing else can quite compare.

“Alfred,” he murmurs, very nearly slurring the name. “I have a . . . request.”

“Yeah?” Alfred presses a kiss to his cheek, tender enough to make him shiver. “Gonna beg for it?”

“Of course not. I was simply wondering if we might go hunting, when my heat is over.”

“Depends. What’re we hunting?”

At that, Arthur opens his eyes. Electric blue stares down at him, sharp enough to cut; but Arthur has a fire of his own, burning just behind the backs of his eyes, and he doesn’t look away from Alfred even to blink. “I thought we could start with our dear friend Mr. Grey,” he says, and Alfred’s mouth stretches into a wide grin. “You and I both have unfinished business to settle with him.”

Alfred smiles down on him, blinding like an exploding star. “I like this look on you,” he says, thrusting in tiny little circles with his hips, forcing a whine from Arthur’s throat. “Bloodlust. We’ll make a supervillain out of you someday, sweetheart.”

“Oh, darling.” Arthur allows himself to smile the way his mother taught him. Sly and clever, just a touch too wide for a simpering omega. Baring just the tips of his teeth, cruelty and danger flashing in his green eyes. It is a smile that has frightened even the most dangerous of alphas—and Alfred, of course, simply looks intrigued. “I’ve been a supervillain since before you ever even picked up a gun.”

“ _Good_.” Alfred bares his teeth back. To an outsider, they must look like two wild animals, feral and unhinged in the moonlight streaming through the window. Finally. Arthur is tired of being docile. “Let’s raise a little hell, baby.”

From a man like Alfred F. Jones, it could almost be a proposal.

**Author's Note:**

> anyway i still love hetalia and fucked up characters are fun as hell :3c please leave kudos and maybe a comment if you enjoyed!! 
> 
> i may or may not write more fics in this universe......possibly with these boys, possibly with other characters. who knows! certainly not me!
> 
>  **dubcon warnings** : al bites arthur twice without warning or consent; the first time is a claiming bite (temporary) and the second is a mating bite (permanent). also there's some inherent consent weirdness just because alfred is a dangerous murderer and arthur is torn between being attracted to and afraid of him. these are not the Good Boys we know and love.


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